


Always Present

by groaar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Anger, Blood, Gen, Ramsay is his own warning, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:09:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3532175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groaar/pseuds/groaar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why does Ramsay need his Reek so badly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Present

**Author's Note:**

> More Ramsay POW. Apparently I think it’s really interesting to explore his sick, sick mind.  
> The writing style might come across a bit choppy but it’s kind of intentional so please bear with me.

He’s angry. Irate. Frustrated. There’s no room in his head for anything else. Nothing but the anger, the bitterness and hate, it fills every corner of his mind. It blocks out everything else…if there ever was anything else; right now he can’t be sure. 

His shoulders are tense, his clenched fist shaking. His mouth is dry and his throat feels thick and swollen, and though he wants to shout and roar his voice is stuck inside. Only his breath comes out. Ragged and in short burst it’s pressed through gritted teeth. The heat has risen to his face, made it red and blotchy. He can feel it burn. And it burns hard. It’s scorching. 

His head pounds. It’s the blood that rushes up there, he knows, and the pressure is so high it’s hard to think clear. It dims his thoughts, even makes his vision blurry. The anger is to blame, it always is and it never leaves him, ever present. Sometimes not so close, but always there, unyielding. 

Why? He doesn’t know. 

Does he care? He used to, long ago, but no more. 

Why not? Nothing helped. Never. 

Only one thing. One thing keeps him entertained; brings him as close to happiness he can come. The only thing he knows to momentarily let go of the fury. 

Pain. To hurt others. It eases his mind. Sooths his nerves. Evens the pressure. To inflict pain in others makes him giddy.

It’s nothing but a temporary solution – the rage always returns – but the short interruption is heaven. It fills his head with nothing, pure emptiness, and it’s a bliss. No anger, no heat, no hammering blood. 

This is why he needs his hunts, his games, his Reek.

He needs the distraction. He needs the release. He needs the silence. He craves it all. 

He needs it now. 

He rushes down the stairs and into the yard to fetch his Reek; drags him up by the collar. Confused eyes and a whimper on the creatures lips, a good start, but not enough by far. Concealed by the night he hauls the fragile, brittle thing along, up the stairs and back into his chamber. He locks the door, pleased his father is gone. Not that it would matter, but it is by far easier; less nagging – more silence. 

He throws his Reek onto the floor, hard, and kicks him once or twice. More whining, some cringing and suddenly he finds his breath runs smoother. He finds his voice again, raspy and unused, tainted by the anger still, and he orders the creature up on all four like the dog he is. 

The whip in his hand feels good, the leather warm against his skin. The sound as it slashes through the air is music – the sound of it cutting into soft skin so much better. It gnaws away, slowly, at the anger pent up inside. Lash, after lash, after lash. Lovely, heavenly music. 

His creature’s skin is weeping; crying tears of blood. It’s rich and red and smells of life and death. He almost aches to touch it; wants to reach out and feel it on his hands, taste it on his tongue. His Reek is weeping too, salty tears, he wants to taste those, too. He lets the whip fall to the floor, dead now without a wielder, and moves in closer. 

He can feel throbbing under his fingers as he runs them along the bloodied back. The skin is slick and wet of blood and sweat, making his hands glide with ease over the scars and swellings. He digs his fingers into a wound, prodding at it playfully, hoping for a reaction. The creature does not disappoint. It cries out, the scream filling his ears – his mind – pushing out the rage bit by bit. His arms are not as tense, his fists no longer clenched. The throbbing in his head, too, is gone. He’s moved it; placed it in his Reek instead. 

Tentatively he licks along the creature’s spine, lapping up some blood, wondering at the taste. Salty. Very salty. He swallows. It feels better. The saltiness cools the heat rumbling in his stomach. The taste chills his scorching face. His creature is quivering, shaking under his hands, breath hitched in its throat. He, himself, can breathe freely. His body is relaxed; freed from all the trembles that haunted it before. His Reek has shouldered his burden. His good, obedient Reek. 

He rests his head against the creatures shoulder and breaths in deeply. Silence floods his mind and it almost makes him smile – almost. 

He’ll never let his Reek go, never.

**Author's Note:**

> More anger induced writing. My writing is apparently really fuelled by my emotions.  
> Luckily writing helps me work the anger out of my system, so I feel better now.  
> Anyways, let me know what you think :)


End file.
